Slingers
by AotL
Summary: During a lull in the action on the SR-2, three crewmates spend some time with things that are very close to their heart: their guns.


The Widow was his friend.

She was reliable. She kept him safe. She worked, and kept working through sick and sin.

And if anyone else heard him talking like this, they may think he was crazy.

When Shepard first picked it up from the Collector base, he had been in such a rush to get his hands on anything that could that could _kill_ that he hadn't the time to take in its intricacies. The way the scope eyepiece was protected behind the guard. The way the bipod let him get that _last_ little bit of stability for a through-cover double-headshot.

Garrus Vakarian was awake at an odd hour. The crew had just changed shifts, and in the "commute" from the CIC to the crew decks, he had managed to squeeze into the elevator. The Widow was disassembled in a bag, but now lay in pieces in the armory, on the port side of the Normandy.

It was oddly quiet.

The away team had just finished some messy business that dealt with Jacob Taylor's father; some things had to be done that no one was particularly proud of. The Cerberus operative usually kept a pretty close watch on these quarters, but there was a rare solitude tonight.

Garrus leaned over a weapon's bench, his omni-tool deployed and adjusting the scope on his gun. Unlike "common" projectile weapons, the Widow didn't have to deal with problems like bullet drop at long distances; Vakarian had overcompensated on the field to try to adjust for a problem that wasn't there. This would have to be corrected.

"Just one more… little…"

The door opened with a start and a krogan curse broke the silence of the room. Grunt held a mangled shotgun in his hands only briefly before pitching it against a bench across the room.

"Stupid piece of junk," he muttered.

"Well, maybe if you didn't use it as a club, it might still be working," offered Garrus, careful to keep a certain _tone_ about his words. While the crew was coming down from a fresh battle, it was rarely wise to rile the krogan.

Grunt snorted in annoyance.

"This wouldn't happen with krogan arms."

"I never liked shotguns, anyway," Garrus said, returning to his scope. "So… uncivilized."

"What! You can't possibly tell me that you don't like feeling that _rush_ when an idiot decides to charge you and ends up flat on his ass with half a face!"

The krogan turned and grabbed a pair of pliers, working the dents out of his weapon.

"I have half a mind to pitch this thing."

Garrus didn't mind the krogan's company. It had taken less time for Grunt to warm up to him than Wrex had; Grunt had even asked him a few things about the turian physiology… something about "structural weaknesses."

While he didn't look it, Grunt still had the curiosity of a child, Looking over his shoulder, Garrus could see him tearing a plate off the gun, trying to figure out what exactly made it _tick_.

He heard a gruff voice, next.

"Oh, great. Now we're making it a party."

"And here I thought we could keep this human-free, Zaeed," Garrus said with a chuckle.

Massani, though a bit unsavory, had never given him any problems. The mercenary stood with an antiquated M-8 Avenger rifle; this was the fabled "Jessie" that many of the crew had become acquainted with through Zaeed's numerous stories.

Garrus had seen Zaeed in here with Jessie before, working off nicks and scratches with a spare grinder. Some, however, remained permanent, almost like trophies.

"Let me guess: trying to get some quality time in with your girl?"

"She's worth more of my time than you, turian," a smirk forming at the corner of his lips.

The three squad-mates stood in relative silence as they worked on their guns. They had little to say. The abject terror of what they were facing as a team had them thinking elsewhere; a suicide mission into the heart of one of the most dangerous regions of the galaxy gave them enough motivation to not dwell on the petty things.

They all realized that there was one thing that they could count on, even above themselves and their teammates: their guns. The guns that would allow them to defend, oppress and conquer. The guns that would bring their wrath upon those who would harm them. The guns that would keep death from claiming them for one more day.

Grunt finished first. In a rage, he threw what was left of his shotgun into the trash disposal unit in the corner of the room. He would need to requisition a new one from the Commander.

As he left, defeated, Garrus could see Zaeed stare at him with a steeled expression.

"He's got a ways to go," the turian noted.

"If he's lucky, he'll live through this," the human muttered back.

After a few more minutes of relative silence, Zaeed slung Jessie over his shoulder and moved to leave. He gestured in Garrus' direction with two fingers – a rare sign of respect.

Garrus shook his head as he finished his adjustments, disassembling the rifle and putting it back into its casing. Some humans confused him. The foam of the case housed each individual piece of the Widow with no chance of damage. It would be tragic if all his work was for naught. He slung it over his shoulder and walked back down to Engineering.

Soon enough, the crew of the Normandy would be thrown into the fight of their lives, with billions more at stake if they failed. It would be himself, Shepard and the rest, thrown into chaos, just like they had with Saren.

Only this time, there might not be a magic Prothean to help them on their journey. There certainly wouldn't be a fleet waiting to bear down on an ancient reaper threat.

It would be the humans.  
With that krogan.  
Supported by that quarian.  
With intel from the geth.  
With the drell working from the shadows.

And him.  
And the Widow.


End file.
